


Rutless

by brownbot5k



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Begging, Beta/Omega, Biting, Bodily Fluids, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, F/M, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Possessive Sex, Scent Marking, Touch-Starved, Trans Female Character, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27663766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brownbot5k/pseuds/brownbot5k
Summary: People always think Grace is one thing when she's another.  But Bob doesn't care that she's off-phenotype or off-season, and that's why she wants him to heat-partner her. (Omegaverse AU)
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 18





	Rutless

People always mistake Grey for alpha.

They’re wrong, just like they’re wrong about her gender, but Bob can’t blame her for downplaying it; Ops is an alpha club, and people have weird ideas about alpha trans women. Grey’s scent is usually understated and always ambiguous, so when people see her size, her job, and assume, she lets them.

She told Bob she was Grace after they became friends, and he’s seen her work through mating season, acting and smelling like normal while all the seasonals go ape, so she’s probably a fellow beta. But one day she calls out sick, asks Bob for emergency groceries, and being a caring coworker and friend, he decides that just dumping them on the doorstep and dashing is damned silly, even if she did ask him to.

So he knocks on the door and when Grey answers, flushed and bleary and cloaked in a blanket, he says, “How’s the bug, boss?”

Grey stares at him in mute, unvarnished horror. When Bob pushes past her to unload the bags, she about jumps to get away from him.

“Jeez, you look awful, what’d you—” Her scent rears up and smacks him in the face. “Wow, holy shit! Sorry!”

Grey points to the door; Bob dumps the groceries on the living room floor and bolts before he embarrasses himself. The scent of her lingers on his skin like a promise, like perfume and lipstick, he can’t stop noticing it and shit, people on the bus are giving him looks, they can tell.

Bob fans himself with paperwork. Usually, mating season just smells like a locker room to him—and why wouldn’t it, those pheromones aren’t supposed to attract him—but Grey’s bypasses the brain and goes straight for the balls. That scent demands satisfaction, and Bob wants to rub himself all over it until she’s covered in him, full of him, and—

God damn are their coworkers mistaken when they joke Grey is rutless. Holy shit. (Though they aren’t totally wrong; even though her scent hits him like a hurricane, Bob can’t identify it as alpha rut or omega heat, just good.) She must be off-season, stuck using sick leave, which isn’t supposed to happen but who’d want word of that getting back to management?

He remembers Grey’s horrified face and cools off. Shit, she’s probably terrified that she’s going to get outed at work, and she has enough to worry about. So he tells his dick to shut it, and the moment he’s back home, he calls her and says, “sorry about barging in on your,” rut? Heat? “sick day.”

“It’s fine.” Pause, then, hesitant: “Okay?”

“Yeah. We’re okay.” If he ignores how even at a distance, over the phone, her voice makes him want to shove a hand down his pants. “If you ever need a hand when you’re like that, give me a call. I’ll help you out.”

He intends it as a friendly offer of assistance. It comes out as a come-on.

But Grey only sounds relieved, maybe a little wondering. “Thanks. I will.” Click.

A couple days later, she comes back to work looking fine, showing no sign of horny frenzy (or satisfaction), and she doesn’t mention it for months. A few times, Bob feels her eyes on him, but every time he looks up, she glances away, and after a while, he figures that’s that.

Then she approaches him after shift. “Coffee?”

Bob blinks. Grey drinks cheap coffee black. “Sure.”

So they go to some coffee shop, get pastries and drinks, and Grey asks (not flirtatiously, apologetically) if Bob would be willing to heat-partner her.

“Grace, I’d love to, but…” She must know, with a seasonal’s nose, but he’s had enough bad receptions. “You do realize I’m beta?”

She waves a hand. “It’s fine. I’m off-phenotype. Mixed.”

Bob’s eyebrows go up. Well, that explains the ambiguous scent. “But you’re still seasonal.”

“Off-season.” Pause. “Have you…?”

“I went through a phase where I got off on bending alpha boys.” Even though she’s the one propositioning him, Grey still turns pink. “It was exhausting then, and that was back in my twenties. Are you sure I can keep up?”

“Doesn’t matter. Never done, like that. And the meds aren’t for off-phenotypes.”

A lot of things aren’t for off-phenotypes, Bob knows, and it’s a crock of shit. People act like they don’t exist—they prefer the romance of polarity, male and female, alpha and omega, complimentary anatomy and hormone sets. Off-polarities, especially queer ones, don’t fit the story, and at the end of the day, it’s amazing how much medical science develops around the stories people tell themselves. But even a short, erratic heat must be godawful with no way to satisfy or stifle it. No wonder Grey locks herself in her apartment.

“If you can’t come down, why…?”

“Because you can.” Grey holds his eyes. “I want you, not a seasonal.”

“Oh.” Well then. Bob finishes off his coffee and grins at her. “I’m yours. Let’s talk about how we want this to go…”

A week later, she takes a sick day and calls him.

“Come over?” she asks.

“Sure,” Bob says as he pockets some condoms. “What do you need?”

A metric ton of tinned soup, a big jar of ibuprofen… and him.

Bob doesn’t care about the rigmarole of seasonal fucking rituals—it’s like old-school leathermen crossed with debutante balls—but tinned soup is lousy foreplay. “Let me make you better soup.”

Grey is clearly in no condition to argue. “Fine.”

Bob figures there’ll be no problem with him making the soup at Grey’s place. Who wants to carry a gallon of soup on a bus? And besides, they’re both adults. Grey was able to handle him bulldozing into her apartment without jumping him; she can handle him making her decent soup with proper flavor.

But when Grey opens the apartment door, dressed to the nines in pearly gray suit vest and slacks, a white linen shirt, Bob realizes that her libido might not be the problem. Sick with season or not, she looks good and smells better; Bob was hoping it wouldn’t hit him as strongly on a second go, but Pavlovian anticipation makes it better/worse. At least he’s old enough that he doesn’t come up hard from it.

Bob breezes in and does his best to act normal. “I’ve got homemade bouillion. That’ll put you right.”

Grey rubs her face like she has a headache. “Thank you. Need…?” She gestures at the kitchen.

Bob pulls a knife from the block. “I’ll do it.” Grey doesn’t look like she should be doing anything involving concentration or sharp objects. When he lobs her the bottle of ibuprofen, she almost doesn’t catch it, and she hastens to get it open and swallow a couple pills down.

Apparently even in heat, she can’t stand to let him do everything himself. She drops kitchenware that he can get himself, turns on the wrong burners, hovers. Finally she gives up trying to be helpful and starts pacing like a panther back and forth around what Bob presumes is his pheromonal event horizon.

Bob pauses in chopping onions, which are at least pushing back the pheromonal “fuck me!” “Do you… the soup can wait, you know.”

Grey shakes her head, expression drawn and hands clenched on the counter. Rocking in place, she points at the ibuprofen. “Hasn’t kicked in yet.”

He’s starting to realize why she looked so apologetic before. She tried to warn him, but this is still painful to watch.

Bob swipes the cutting board full of onions into the pot, makes sure there’s enough oil, and asks, “What helps till then?”

She gives him a look both longing and awful, puts her forearms down on the counter, hides her face in them. “Touch me? Please?”

Happily. “Sure, Grace. Whatever you need.”

Making sure she can hear him coming, Bob approaches the counter, puts a hand on her shoulder. Even with the telegraphing, she still jumps, makes a low, sad sound.

“Okay?”

She nods without raising her head. He comes around to her side of the counter, starts stroking her back, and she pushes into it like a cat demanding pets. Bob keeps it up, and the rocking slows, then stops. She starts to relax.

“Been a while, huh?”

More nods, still without looking up.

“You should’ve asked me sooner. I would’ve done this for you anytime…”

Without the onions right in front of his face, there’s no ignoring how mouthwatering she smells. Even with all the layers, she feels good. He can feel her skin through her clothes, feverish hot, and it’s good, he wants that, and without thinking, he slips his hand down the back of her collar.

The sound she makes curls something warm and possessive in his gut. She doesn’t pull away—on the contrary, she arches to try and get more. He’s happy to give it to her. Better, so much better without fabric in the way, better to have her like this, bent over the counter, his hand on the back of her neck—

“Good girl,” he says, and her ears turn pink. “Just enjoy this.”

The gray-brown fuzz at her nape is surprisingly soft, so Bob goes ahead with petting it, mapping the muscles of the back of her neck, the bumps of her spine, around her ears. She shivers, then turns her head and taps his hand.

“You should stop.”

“What? Why?”

The blush deepens. “It’s…” She puts her hand over his, moves so his thumb and fingers are clamped on either side, makes them pinch. Makes them bite.

Oh. “Shit!” He jerks away and tries to ignore the pulse in his groin. “Sorry. I… it’s been a while, I forgot.” And he’s never bitten someone like that. It’s like putting a ring on the wedding finger, not something you just do.

It’s not something he’s wanted to do, until this moment.

Then he realizes that in her state, having him pull away and stop touching her must feel lousy, so he comes back and hugs her from behind. She’s tall enough that his face is at her back, not her neck, so it feels safer, and it seems to work; she relaxes again. Then her hands start patting his arms, trying to reach more of him.

“Okay?” He asks.

“Mm.” She rubs her ass back against him, takes his hand. “Can I?”

Bob doesn’t know what she’s asking, but he knows the answer: “Sure.”

She takes his hand and just… touches it. Runs her own hands all over it, exploring his fingers, the lines of his palm, the tendons at the back, like she’s trying to memorize the textures of him. It’s nice.

He has to let go of her periodically, pour in water, stock, and lentils, chop more vegetables, but at least it keeps his mind from going straight into the gutter. As long as he stays close, she stays relaxed, and she purrs whenever he comes back to hug her, before she goes back to memorizing his hands.

Then she kisses his knuckles and there’s that heat lightning crackle he’d almost forgotten about, making him squeeze her tighter and press his face to her shoulder blades.

She makes a questioning sound.

“It’s fine.” His voice sounds rough. “You just feel good. Go ahead.”

She nuzzles against his hand, kisses each fingertip, his palm, and Bob resists the urge to shove his fingers in her mouth and grind up on her like a horny prom date. He takes his free hand, starts feeling her up over her clothes, and when it makes her squirm and sigh, brushes against the fly of her slacks.

She gasps and pushes into it, which seems like an endorsement. Stroking more firmly makes her start sucking on his fingers all by herself, and yes, fuck yes, that’s right, that’s—

He has to limit the pheromone dosage if he’s getting this high from this with his clothes on. The horny animal part of him just wants to bend her over the counter and fuck her, but he can’t keep up with a seasonal no matter what his dick thinks and he wants to give her a good time, so he reaches for her belt instead.

“Want it?” he asks.

She nods and rushes to help, but doesn’t want to let go of his hand either, so it takes a moment to get her belt and fly open. She doesn’t let Bob play romantic either, just shoves his hand into her pants, past the handful he had earlier, deeper…

Bob feels wet folds. “Oh, I see,” he purrs in her ear, making her wriggle against him. “Omega girl…“

Apparently that’s the right thing to say, because Grey makes a sound that she’d probably find embarrassing, were she not in heat, and presses against him like she’s trying to get him inside her, front and back. Bob should probably be using gloves for this to dodge the rush, but he wants the high. He wants her skin, her saliva, her slickness, everything.

He can see what she meant about being off-phenotype; her clit feels more alpha, and she can barely take two of Bob’s fingers, but she’s wet and hungry and going to pieces, and that’s all he wants. Bob strokes her inside and out, rides the waves of scent and skin and Grey’s lips and tongue around his fingers, and keeps talking, since she seems to be getting off on it.

“You’re so soft, pretty girl. You’ve left this way too long, I can tell.” He gets on tiptoes to kiss her neck, and it’s like lightning on his lips. Too late, he realizes it’s probably too close to biting to be safe, but he doesn’t apologize; how can he with the sounds she’s making and the way she’s rubbing all over him? “If I’d known how bad you wanted me, I would’ve given this to you ages ago…”

She pushes back, trying to get his mouth on her neck again, and when Bob gives in and licks, she jolts and sucks harder.

“You want me to bite you, omega girl?” Fuck, he sounds more into this than he should be, though Grey seems to like it. “I might not have a knot, Grace, but you say the word and I’ll fuck you like it’s your wedding night.” Even worse, but Grey’s gasping and tightening around his fingers, hot and wet. “You want that, pretty girl?”

“Yes!” She whines, grinding back on him.

Her clit is thickening, and this part Bob remembers from college. He reaches to squeeze, but Grey catches it, presses it down flat to rub up on instead, and comes wet in her slacks.

“Good girl. That’s good.” Bob barely recognizes his own voice. He grinds and Grey writhes. “That’s nice…”

As she drips down his fingers, he’s aware of an ache in his balls, but he tells it to hush. He’s not in heat, and if this goes like Grey said—

Yup. She isn’t relaxing. If anything, the sound she makes is frustrated. She pushes back against him as though trying to get as much skin contact as possible, squeezing her thighs together like she wants—

Oh. She does want. Of course she does. And Bob could give it to her too, just shove her down over the counter and fuck her till she’s messy and sated and done.

No, stop it, that’s the pheromones talking—and he needs to stay dressed if he wants any hope of keeping up with this.

Grey turns to look at him questioningly over her shoulder. Despite the heat, there’s a note of hesitancy, like she’s still worried he’ll change his mind.

Bob figures the best way to reassure her is to suck her come off his fingers—which maybe isn’t the smartest idea, since it hits him like E and poppers, but the look it puts on her face is religious. “Sweet girl,” he teases.

She grabs his shirtfront and drags him to bed. Once they get there, she throws him down on it, climbs on top of him, and starts kissing him, moaning when she tastes herself on his tongue.

“Told you,” he laughs, then smacks her hands away when they go for his clothes. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Leave them.”

He gets her vest off and shirt open, but her hands keep roaming.

“Not yet, not yet,” Bob pants, even as he arches up into her hands on his chest. “I get that much skin contact with you, I’ll come before you’re done.”

“Never done like this,” she growls, pulling his shirt out of his belt so she can put her hands up it. “Told you.”

“Yeah, but—” She gropes him and he makes a sound far too high-pitched. “Fuck! At least let me try—don’t you want—?”

She stares into his eyes and rolls her hips, sharp and intent. “Yes. I want.”

If she keeps this up, he’s going to do them both the disservice of coming in his pants. “Hold on, hold on—”

She growls, grinding circles against his cock as though she hasn’t made it obvious enough what she wants. “Please…”

“Look, you’re only getting one round of that, and not for long, so is there anything else?”

“Bite me!”

Shit. They didn’t negotiate that. That’s serious. Bob should redirect—she’s an omega in heat, clearly flying, he has to keep his head on straight for the both of them, but fuck is that hard when she’s pinning him to the bed and begging for it so prettily.

He puts a hand on her throat and she shivers, pushes into it like it’s his teeth.

“You want me to?” He asks. “You want to go to work tomorrow, have everyone see it on you?”

It comes out sounding like a promise. Grey is no help; she nods, swallows, muscles working under his hand. There’s something filthy good about having her like this, all dressed up in this nice suit with her belt undone, shirt and fly open, her pants creamed.

“You want to be satisfied?” Now he’s the one grinding up on her, using his free hand on her hip for leverage. “In front of them?”

She nods again, starting to move her hips fast and jerky like she might come just from his voice. Bob slides his hand from her hip down the front of her slacks and finds her soaking wet, starts playing with her clit, and she starts to shake, spreading her legs even though there’s nowhere to go.

“You want to be mine, don’t you?” He keeps his touch light and teasing, even though she’s wound so tight, she’s practically vibrating. Her clit’s knotting up again. “My pretty little omega girl.”

He slides inside her and she squirts with a sob, rocking into his hand and pulsing wetness over his pants. Bob strokes her through it, trying to ignore the sympathy throbbing in his dick, but once again her expression is frustrated, desperate, and she’s trying to lock his fingers inside her even though it isn’t working.

“You look delicious,” he says, and that gives him an idea. He moves his hand off her throat so he can tug at her thighs. “Here, take these off and come up here. You’re candy, and I’ve barely gotten a taste.”

She scrambles to get her clothes off, and Bob moves to help.

Her jockey shorts are soaked, clinging almost transparent to her, and Bob’s mouth fills with saliva at the sight. He holds her hips still, licks up the lines of her hips, and watches the wetness spread while she wriggles and whines and all but humps his face.

“They could smell you on me last time, and that was just being in the same room as you for a moment,” Bob purrs as he kisses above her waistband. “Everyone’s going to know what we’ve been doing.”

For a moment, he thinks she’s going to try and keep her shorts on, but he licks her clit and that gets her on board… though Bob has to pause for a moment to let the shudders work through him. And oh, if just licking her through her shorts is that intense, this will be good.

Grey’s face is open and nervous. “Okay?” She asks, petting his face.

He smiles at her. “More than. Take them off for me, pretty girl?”

Her hands are shaky, but she slides them down. Bob watches. She’s a mess of come, slick on her thighs, and she sucks in her breath when he leans in.

Even bracing himself, going down on her is an experience, all that heat and salt and need on his tongue while she whines and shakes and comes undone. When he slides his tongue into her, fireworks go off in his brain and it’s a hell of a thing to be edging himself while fully dressed with no cock contact whatsoever, moaning and jerking while the smell and touch and taste of her blossom like flowers through his nerves. Grey’s covering her mouth, making desperate, ecstatic noises and good, this is perfect, Bob could do this all fucking night with her thighs around his neck.

Then she says, “Bite me!” again.

Bob has to pull away to catch his breath. “You want it on your thigh?” At least that won’t have the same connotations as her neck.

Under normal circumstances, it’d be funny, seeing the obvious conflict in her face, like she’s torn between wanting his mouth and his teeth and realizing she can’t have both at the same time. But finally she says, “yes!” so he slides his fingers into the hot wet muscle of her and puts his mouth to work on her thigh and clit. When she tightens and starts fluttering around him, he sinks his teeth into her thigh, and she practically sings when she comes.

He sucks on the marks hard to bring them up, licks them to soothe, and then he has to stop because those are very pretty marks and even without the whole “mating bite” thing, it still does something to him.

She slows, panting, but isn’t done. And this time, when she goes for Bob’s buttons, he goes, “Fuck. Okay. Okay.”

If Grey’s hands feel good, the rest of her feels amazing, and once Bob’s clothes are off, he presses against her and rubs all over her like she’s human catnip. Grey shivers, kisses him and pets his back, but she’s eyeing his cock hungrily, and when she rolls her hips and smears her wetness all over him, Bob nearly comes on the spot.

“Fuck!” He tries to pause, bury his face in her neck to catch his breath, but that just makes Grey bare her throat to him and grind desperately on him, trying to get as much of his precome as she can.

“Now?” It’s only barely a question.

“Fuck. Okay. Yeah.” For a long-denied omega in heat, she has been remarkably patient. Then he remembers that she’s off-phenotype, how tight she was around his fingers, tries to pull himself together. “Can you take me?”

She spreads her legs. “Now.”

Bob’s out of self-control. He dives for his pants to get the condoms. The whole time he’s getting it on, Grey’s kissing him, rubbing up all over him, trying to get his mouth on her neck and making begging sounds. Bob slicks up haphazard, using the mess on Grey’s stomach, lines up, and—

Grey’s eyes go wide and she wraps her legs around Bob’s waist.

“Oh wow.” Bob should have given her this from the start, holy shit. She’s heaven, wrapped around him in layers of soft, wet pliability drenched in endorphin rush, and Bob never wants to leave, this, this is what they need, this is what he wants, to make her his, make her—

He’s sucking on her neck, fucking Grey’s own fluids back into her, and Grey’s rolling her hips, pulling Bob in as deep as he can get, clutching his shoulders and squeezing him as close as possible with arms and legs and—

“Not so tight, not so tight—”

Grey doesn’t seem to have any control over it anymore, though, just kisses him harder. He’s going rougher than he feels he should be, but she doesn’t seem to care, her clit wet against his belly, her come slick against his thighs and sweet on his tongue. She’s clenching, gushing, ripe with him, her scent is everywhere and Jesus Christ he’s going to smell of her for days and they’re all going to think she fucked the bejesus out of him, and they’re all going to be deliciously wrong.

She’s cupping his face in her hands now, baring her throat to him again, begging, “Bite me, bite me, please…”

Bob sinks his teeth into her and the sound she makes is perfect. He comes, and even with the latex, Grey must smell it or something, because her muscles wrap around him like they never want him to leave, rippling and milking him dry. For a horrible moment, he thinks the pheromones won’t let him come down either, but then the rosy languor sets in and Grey’s smell goes from ambrosial aphrodisiac to just good.

“Holy shit,” Bob says. He can’t pull out, but he flops on her and she lets him.

Then he sees her face: pleased, sated, and almost comically relieved.

“Oh hey, did you…?”

Grey’s reaction is to go boneless with a sigh and release around Bob’s dick, petting his back. She looks embarrassed but she’s grinning.

Bob laughs as he slides out, oversensitive after being locked, and takes care of the condom disposal. “Well, I’ll be damned. Your ‘complimentary chemicals’ must be your own.”

But she shakes her head. “Done that before. Never worked.”

Bob remembers the hasty lubing up, using his own precome for it, how she reacted to it much the way he reacted to hers. “All that and what you needed was a beta. Those polarity people are full of it.” Then he sees the bite he left on her neck—big, obvious, way too visible. “Shit. We didn’t negotiate that. Grace, are you…?”

She runs her fingers over it, purrs. “Yes. Thank you.” She kisses him. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

More hesitantly: “Yours?”

Bob pauses. Now that he’s come, he’s not getting pheromonally mickeyed anymore, but he still likes the way his marks look on her, still likes the idea of giving her more. He likes the idea of people smelling her on him, knowing what they’ve been doing. He likes the idea of their coworkers seeing her satisfied, finally, at long last, and knowing it was him.

He leans over, kisses the bite. “Mine,” he agrees. “My pretty little omega girl.”

When Grey beams, it lights up her whole face.

The sheets are disgusting and they’re both covered in fluids, but Grey doesn’t seem bothered. She just looks down at the mess she’s left on herself and plays with it, looking radiantly pleased with herself.

Then her stomach growls, loudly enough that they both look up.

Bob checks his watch, snorts. “Well, that’s convenient. The soup should be done right about now. I hope you like lentils.”

Grey nods, points to the shower, looks at Bob questioningly.

Bob laughs. “Sure.”

Grey turns out to be a shower snuggler. Bob doesn’t mind that at all.


End file.
